On a random morning this past August, I woke up to discover that I was out of almond milk. It’s a crucial component in my coffee ritual, so I ambled sleepily to the nearest grocery store for a new carton. My hair was still unbrushed, and there was nothing in my pockets but my phone and a $5 bill.

As I approached the senior center a few blocks from my apartment, I heard a soft song seeping through its shut windows: the chorus of “happy birthday.” The strangers’ voices beamed in gentle effervescence through the slits in the blinds as I stopped in my tracks. I couldn’t see their faces, but I imagined a gray-haired group of at least five people. I wondered whether there was cake. I pictured candles stuck in sloppy stacks of pancakes or waffles, with tiny flames flickering in an imitation of the waking sun.

It was a simple moment that seemed to change everything, staining my mood with its sweetness. It shook me out of my own head, which had begun buzzing with plans and to-do lists and self-focused weekday worries. It reminded me that I am not the center of the universe; that my concerns are mere specks in a world rippling with rich emotions and ever-humming human connections.

Just as the song ended with a rush of claps and scattered bursts of “yay,” I captured a quick video of the scene to sew it into my memory. My hand wobbled, and there was nothing to see, anyway. The significance was only the sound — the resonating warmth of the song whose evanescence somehow made it more poignant and precious.